Price of a Woman
by Blind writer
Summary: In a disparaged part of town, amidst the steady stream of bars, you'll find her there, with legs a mile long and a thin line of smoke sneaking out the corner of her lips. Milly is not the kind of girl anyone would want to marry. Adult themes, AU.


_A/N: This was initially an original piece I wrote, but since original fiction has practically zero exposure and I have no aspirations to become a professional writer, I tweaked it to become a fanfic._

_Noir-like, second person present, and totally not my normal writing style. The reason is because this is actually a very old bit of writing from circa 2002 that I recently rediscovered. Yes._

* * *

Milly is not the kind of girl anyone would want to marry.

She is like a fish, some say; floating around in a sea of idiots, baiting the poor fellows with promises. Her hips always have this mesmerizing sway unique to only her.

"Milly is special, she's my girl," one would say in the heat of the moment. They pour themselves at her feet, really only being the ones owned, and not vice versa.

She smiles a lot, too. Those pearly whites hiding under ruby, pink-painted lips. They flash at strangers, mainly men, upwards of a hundred times a night. It isn't because she is a particularly happy or cheerful person, it's just Milly's way. So many poor souls have been lured by that seductive grin of hers. After seeing it so many times yourself, you wonder how long it took her to perfect it.

You work at a local pub, catering to the souls of depressed people seeking solace in a bottle of whiskey. And every night, she is there, sporting a new boy toy, or looking for another plaything. Too bad not many see her everyday.

Tonight she seems particularly dazzling. It's not often she wears that skimpy black thing which is a dress only by label. You liken it closer to a few strips of midnight velvet miraculously held on by a few thin strings. Somehow, she makes it look good. As usual, she's got a half-burned cigarette gingerly pinched between her fingers, and that honey-sweet smile plastered on her face. This club - this haven for drunkards - is her playground.

On her right is a scrawny pale thing you've seen around here before, features twisted and hidden partially by overgrown hair, tangled and in sore need of a wash. You made no note of the fake ID he showed you earlier, and obliged his illegal request for a stiff shot of vodka. He looks like a runaway, hiding his distinctive eyes under that nasty mat, avoiding any and all eye contact. He's probably a teen flunky from a rich family.

More than likely he came to this bar for the off-chance of snagging a girl. His cheeks are red now, either from liquor or lust; you can't tell. Maybe both. It's not surprising he's fallen under Milly's spell. She has an animal magnetism, drawing men to her like wolves on the scent of fresh blood.

She sits there, twirling a lock of her long, blonde hair idly with a finger, leaning towards the sex-starved teen. The kid looks down at her exposed cleavage. You bet he would do anything if she asks. You also wouldn't be surprised if she asks a price of him before the night even phases to morning. She's savvy like that.

You idly scrub and dry the shot glass you've been holding for the past five minutes. She's expensive that way, too. Sometimes you question why you never tell anyone of her habits here. Her favorites are always the rich school boys, after all, but you can never summon the guts to do so. Perhaps you're a weak man, or maybe you like the smell of her perfume reeking through the space. Maybe you get idle satisfaction at watching the young fools fall victim to their ignorance. Who knows.

You blink as she stands, a little too close to the waxy and overeager teen. How old is he again? Sixteen? Seventeen? Eh, it doesn't matter. She leans against her new boy toy, and slowly rocks her hips as she makes her way to the door. She sends you a sly wink over her shoulder to tell you to add her drink to her running tab, and you feel a faint curve tilt your lips. Too bad not many see her everyday.

She's expensive in many different ways. As her husband, you know better than anyone else the price she demands. But somehow, it all manages to balance out anyway. You'll go home soon to an empty bedroom, come to the beat of your own hand while thinking of your wife bouncing on another man's penis across town, and pass out half-dressed on the covers.

It's all you can think about after all, from the moment she left the bar. Is she having sex right now? In what way? How many times? Will there be hickey marks left over? Would she be wearing the lacy panty set you got her for her birthday? The one that matches her blue, blue eyes? What name will she cry out, as she climaxes? You wonder. You really don't have a clue. You made no note of that fake ID, so you can't even pretend. It's the lingering memory of her perfume that haunts you as you drift into slumber.

When you wake up, though - when you open your eyes, Milly will be right there beside you. Her lipstick will be smeared, and she'll radiate the smell of stale sex. Her clothes will be rumpled, and she will look positively ravished. She never bothers to hide it, and it burns impatiently in your veins when you feel the slimy remnants trickling down her thighs. The less she hides, the harder you wind up getting. Your wife has been desired, craved, desperately fucked by hundreds of men.

She is an irresistible force of nature.

Then she will give you that smile that you've seen so many times before, and nothing else matters. Because she comes home to you every night, with her ring back on her finger. Always, without fail.

* * *

_A/N: Cuckoldry is a rare kink, but it exists, I promise. Also, the narrator can technically be any male of your choosing, but I cannot unsee Rivalz filling the position. CANNOT UNSEE._

_I let this one sit for a while because it's been bothering me, and feels oddly weak at points. After much hemming and hawing, struggling, and more angsting, I gave up trying to fine-tune it. Concrit welcome, as always._


End file.
